Page 15 of Love Finds Home

“I don’t know, but I’d back up in case you’re in the blast zone.”

But I can’t let that happen. I grasp her wrist to stop her from even thinking of moving away from me. But the jolt of fire up my arm and the look of shock on her face, makes my next words a fucking lie. “I’m fine.”

“You might look fine,” she tries to sass, giving me an up and down look I feel everywhere, “but you, asshole, are deranged. Were you dropped on your head as a baby? Did the Army do this to you? Who hurt you?”

And without thinking, without even understanding what I’m doing, I open my mouth and one word comes out. “Vanessa.”

I hear Barbie’s intake of breath. I see Elle immediately sober up and emotionally shut down. I need to fix it, but I don’t know how. I haven’t said her name out loud for years. It tastes foreign on my tongue, and I don’t like. I don’t want to ever say it again, if I can help it. Elle won’t make eye contact with me, but she hasn’t tried to take her wrist from my hold either.

I don’t know what to do. I know I need to drop her hand, but I can’t make myself do it. I know I need to kick her out and tell her to never come back, but I think we all know that’s not going to happen. This, ladies and gentleman, is me. Completely fucked.

Chapter 5

Elle

Well, that explains it,doesn’t it? It’s always a bitter relationship that makes us the way we are. But I don’t take my hatred of those terrible relationships out on everyone of the opposite sex, so what’s this guy’s deal?

Let’s just forget the fact that he’s one of the hottest men I’ve ever met with his six-foot muscled frame. Or his dark brown eyes and even darker brown hair that has a natural wave. And that the growly, broody thing does it for me. I’m not thinking about how his presence is fucking with my equilibrium. The smell of leather and what I think is cinnamon overpowers the antiseptic smell of the tattoo shop. I’m itching to grab a pencil and a pad to sketch something. It doesn’t matter what it is, but the need is fierce. I can feel the energy around me, calling to me. This place. There is something special here, something that I haven’t felt in a long time.

I realize I’ve been locked in my own head when the gruff voice of irritation and annoyance filters through my head.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I hear Ranger say.

“Nothing’s wrong with her, Cross. Haven’t you ever seen an artist doing artist things?” Barbie responds.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, part of me hoping I can hold on to whatever magic is in this place.

“Is she on something?”

“Is there a reason you talk around me? About me? I’m right here and could answer your questions directly, you know?” I demand, my jaw clenching as I make eye contact with the man.

“Fine. Are you on something? Because I’m not renting a damn thing to anyone who’s going to bring illegal shit into my place.”

“No, I’m not on anything. I’d say the vibe in here is perfect, but, well, you’re here, so…” I trail off, leaving the sentence unfished.

“Fuck,” he growls under his breath. “Do you want to see the fucking space or not?”

“Yes, I’d like to see the ‘fucking space,’ if that works for you.”

“Whatever. Follow me.”

Ranger turns around and stomps over to a door at the far end of the studio that I didn’t notice when I came in. Throwing it open, he clomps up the stairs, not looking to see if I’m following.

“Better go after him,” Barbie laughs. “He isn’t known for his patience.”

“No kidding,” I mumble and walk the same path he just took.

Will I have to go through the shop to get upstairs all the time? I’m looking down at my feet to make sure I don’t trip when I run into a solid wall of man. Ranger is at the top of the steps, where there’s a small landing with a metal door. It looks heavy and secure, safe.

He reaches out and grabs me by my arms when I bounce off of him, stopping me from falling backwards down the steps.

“Jesus. Watch what you’re doing. I don’t want to have to pay the insurance if you hurt yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah. I didn’t realize you had stopped. And it’s not like you have any rails on the walls here for safety, you know.”

I don’t want to tell him I have issues with stairs. That I’m more likely to fall up them than down. That they give me the creeps. Or that I normally feel the walls closing in on me when I’m alone in a stairwell with a man, but for some reason, I don’t feel it with him.

He grunts but doesn’t apologize, turning to unlock the door and walking through, leaving me on the landing. Asshole.

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